


Out of Crucifying

by Writer_Darkling



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Also sort of fluffy, Angst, Crucifixion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I almost can't believe I wrote this, Kidnapping, Non-Linear Narrative, Prompt Fic, Tony Feels, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_Darkling/pseuds/Writer_Darkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tony started struggling in earnest the moment they dragged him, naked, into the room and he saw the cross laid out on the ground."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this Avengerkink prompt: http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/9218.html?thread=19283714#t19283714

Tony laid back on the mattress, bandaged hands resting on his stomach. “Thor!” he rasped. “Hey, Thor! This one sucks. Let's try the next one.”

“I don't think he can hear you,” Clint said from beside him. The archer sat up and exaggeratedly waved both arms over his head at Thor, who stood at the end of the row of mattresses next to Natasha. Natasha saw Clint around Thor and said something in an undertone. At her words, Thor turned and lifted a hand in acknowledgement. The two of them strode over. 

“He wants to try the next one,” Clint told them.

“Thank you,” Tony muttered hoarsely. “I couldn't have told them that myself.”

“I know. That's why I did it for you.” He smirked at Tony's glare.

Natasha stood with her hands clasped in front of her while Thor slid up between the beds. The demi-god smiled down at Tony before slipping his right arm under Tony's back and the other under his knees. “Ready?”

Tony gave him a vivid smile. “Of course. Come on, up we go. Next!” And Thor lifted. Tony bit back a groan of pain. He looped his left elbow around the back of Thor's neck for stability, keeping his fingers as relaxed as possible. Thor edged back to the foot of the bed, careful not to bump Tony's casted lower legs. Then he swept over to the next mattress and lowered Tony gently back down. 

Tony breathed deeply and just rested there a moment. This bed was softer. He liked it a lot better than the last one. 

After a little while, Clint crawled from one bed to the other and flopped down next to him with a sigh. “Too soft,” he commented.

Before Tony could reply, he noticed Bruce drifting over, finally returning from the bathroom. “Hey,” Tony grunted once he reached them. “Took you long enough. Here, lie down. This one's nice.”

Bruce hesitated and glanced at Clint, who wiggled over to make room at the side. Bruce eased himself down and hummed in surprise. “This _is_ nice.”

Sandwiched between them, Clint crossed his arms. “No, it's not. It's too soft.”

“That's what you think,” muttered Tony. Then he frowned. “Hey, what happened to Steve?”

“He's still in the bathroom.”

“What a stick in the mud,” Tony groaned.

Bruce propped himself up on an elbow to look him in the eye over Clint. “You know, Tony, you really don't need to do this.”

“Oh, shush, Bruce,” Natasha spoke up from the foot of the last bed. “He's a billionaire. He can afford it no matter how many times you transform.”

Bruce sent her a frown, and she just raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, swallowing to clear his aching throat. “And since I'm paying for it, that means I get a say in which bed you get. Clearly you've never gone mattress shopping because you always have to try them all out. How would you know which one you like best if you don't?” He turned to Thor standing patiently at his side. “Next!” When Thor lifted him again, Tony felt Bruce's eyes on his face. Tony pointedly didn't let the ache show in his expression. 

Bruce still looked guilty when he murmured, “Why don't I just get this one? Tony, I really don't think all of this is necessary....” 

Thor paused at the footboard when he nearly ran into Steve. “There you are!” Tony rasped. 

Steve glanced over Tony's face and frowned down at him. “I thought you were supposed to be resting your voice.”

“He is,” Clint said. “But since when has that stopped him?”

Tony preened. Then he looked up at Thor and pointed with his chin. “Giddyup.”

Thor didn't move. “Are you certain? Perhaps this is enough for today.”

Tony looked affronted. “Killjoy. I'm having fun. Next!” Thor didn't even twitch. Tony wriggled in his arms like he could swing himself out or somehow make Thor carry him the direction he wanted. “Come on, I thought you were my personal pony, at my beck and call and everything!”

Thor and Steve exchanged a meaningful look. 

“Oh, no, you don't!” Tony cried, unable to get much volume out of his wrecked voice. “Don't you dare. No, no conspiring against my wishes with just a look!” 

Thor and Steve swung around, Steve easily falling into step at the demi-god's right. They headed toward the end of the line of beds where they'd abandoned the wheelchair. 

Tony's eyes widened. “Hey, no fair!” He aimed sad eyes up at Thor. “This is mean. I hope you know that. I want to try out mattresses! That was the whole point of this expedition. Bruce's got all messed up and we're replacing it. I don't want him to sleep in one of the guest rooms anymore.”

“It's fine, Tony. I don't mind.”

Tony twisted his head around to try to see Bruce behind him, but he couldn't quite manage it. So Tony just flopped his head backward, thinking to stare upside-down around Thor's bicep. That turned out to be a mistake. His expression twisted as overused, aching muscles in his neck protested. He would have said something, but he discovered that with his throat stretched out at that horrible angle, he couldn't actually get any sound out. He instinctively grabbed onto Thor's shirt to pull himself up and regretted it when a spike of agony shot through his hand and wrist. 

Thor came to a halt when he noticed Tony's distress, and Steve edged his head back up with a warm palm cupped around the nape of his neck. Once up, Tony yanked his arm out from behind the Asgardian's neck and cradled it carefully in his opposite hand, burying his flushed face against Thor's chest. The arms around him flexed and gripped him a little tighter. 

“Yeah, okay,” Tony muttered once most of the pain passed and he got his voice back. “I guess we can go.”

Tony felt Thor start walking again, and he didn't protest when he was lowered gently into the wheelchair. Steve questioningly held out the folded lap blanket he'd snagged off the seat. Tony glanced down at his chilled, bare toes where they stuck out of the cast and lifted his arms out of the way in invitation. Steve spread the blanket out onto his lap. Bruce leaned in and carefully tucked in the edges to keep it away from the wheels. 

“You realize,” Tony muttered to him while he was fussing, “that we're not done here, right? We're coming back tomorrow to try out the rest.” 

“Okay,” Bruce agreed even though it didn't look like he believed Tony. “But if you decide you want to wait a few extra days, that would be okay, too.”

The store employees, kept away from even Tony's money by respect for the Avengers and Natasha's glare, bowed and gave a few tentative goodbyes as the group left. Only Clint, trailing along as the rear guard, bothered to give them any sort of acknowledgement. Clint's tone didn't sound very happy to Tony, but he was hurting too much to really listen.

\-----

_Tony started struggling in earnest the moment they dragged him, naked, into the room and he saw the cross laid out on the ground. “No, no fucking way! You've got to be fucking joking!” He fought and twisted, but his hands were roped behind his back and his feet were tied together, and there really was nothing he could do. It took four of them to shove him to his knees, untie him and press him back-first onto the cross. Their hands were everywhere over his bare skin, and they had to lean their entire weight into the grips on his arms and legs to keep him still._

_The cold tip of a nail touched Tony's left palm, and he froze before whipping his head to the side. His eyes couldn't get any wider as he stared at the hammer, lifting higher and higher, and he just knew this was going to hurt like a mother. He didn't want to watch this, but he couldn't look away, either. The hammer hung in the air, pausing for an infinite moment on the upswing. Then it came down and slammed the nail through his hand – hitting once, twice, four times._

_Tony wailed and writhed. His fingers involuntarily twitched and curled inward with each hit. “Oh, God! Oh, GOD!” His hand was on fire. Oh, Jesus, his hand had been impaled. These crazies were honestly nailing him to a fucking cross._

_His mind hadn't fully processed the pain and shock before his right hand shot white-hot blades up his arm. He screamed. Tears squeezed out of his eyes and slid down his temples into his hacked-off hair. Shivering, he barely registered the people holding down his arms sliding cautiously away. He didn't fight them._

_Someone pulled out a longer nail, if that was possible, a monstrosity of steel that was at least eight inches. It had to be, if it was going through both of his feet and into the wood deeply enough to hold his weight. (No, no, do NOT calculate how deep that needs to be or exactly how many pounds per square inch of pressure it could hold up.) Tony flinched and screwed his eyes shut, unwilling to watch this time._

\-----

Tony fell asleep on the drive back to the Tower, slumping over until his head rested on Thor's shoulder. Steve, sitting on Tony's other side, smiled as he felt the expansion of Tony's ribs smooth out and slow in deep rest.

Sitting opposite them in the limo, Bruce breathed a sigh of relief, glad that the lines of pain on Tony's face finally eased away. Then he glared at Natasha. “What was that about? You know it's a bad idea for him to go past his next dose.”

Her face remained serene as she watched him have a minor meltdown. “Maybe so. But it's a worse idea to coddle him.”

Clint, his face serious, nodded. “With injuries this bad, it's easy to want to do everything for him. We all want to protect him, Bruce. But we can't hold him back, either.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “I know that! Don't you think I know that? I worked as a doctor for years.”

“Yes, as a doctor,” said Natasha. “That's not the same as a friend or a teammate. An objective outsider is exactly what you're not.” She paused, her voice coming slower and heavier with meaning. “Despair is the biggest obstacle right now. Fighting that is just as important as the prescriptions and the medicine.”

Bruce stared at Tony's sleeping face. Eventually he let out a sigh and with it, all his frustration. “He just looked so hurt and exhausted.”

Thor wrapped an arm around Tony. “Indeed. He thought it was hidden, but I felt him flinch each time I lifted him. It pained me to do as he asked.” His eyes scrunched closed, and when he opened them, his drawn face was old and ageless, his tone weary. “I can only be glad he is not as bad as he once was.”


	2. Chapter 2

_The door slammed open, rebounding a little off the wall. Everyone looked up to see a black-haired woman catch her breath in the doorway and smooth out her ornamental priest's robes. Composure gathered in, she strode the few steps over to stare down at Tony._

_The woman looked about ready to preen when she spotted one of Tony's hands. Then her expression filled with such rage that he flinched and the five people kneeling on the floor all shrank a little. “Don't you idiots know anything?” she demanded, her voice rich and powerful. She snapped out a finger to point at Tony's hand. “Take those out. Right now. Must I tell you every last detail? Nailing through the hand is the weaker technique. He'll last longer if you nail his forearm here,” she said, gesturing, “just above the wrist between the radius and ulna.”_

_No one moved. “Now!” she hissed, all the more dangerous for the lack of volume._

_The man with the hammer let go of the monster nail and scrambled on his knees up to Tony's right hand. When he started to wedge the claw of the hammer between Tony's palm and the bloody head of the nail, Tony let out a whimper. “No, don't!” he cried, his voice thick. “Just leave it. Please, God, just leave it there! Don't do it again. Please don't.”_

_“Shut up,” the woman hissed at him, planting a flat-heeled, patent leather shoe over his genitals. He jumped and froze, staring up with wet, wide, brown eyes. “You don't deserve to speak, Anthony Edward Stark. Ancient Roman crucifixion was reserved for the lowest of the low: slaves and traitors and the scum of the earth.” She sneered. “Sounds about right to me.” She leaned her weight onto him until he couldn't stop a pained sound escaping his throat, then turned to the man with the hammer. “What are you waiting for?”_

_The man twitched and returned his attention to prying up the nail. His arms bulged with the effort. Tony could feel the nail bending on the way out, the pressure of the hammer's claws pinching the side of his hand. He choked on a scream._

_“Yes, good,” the woman was murmuring. “Now nail it through his forearm. No, you fool, not there, you'll pierce an artery. Yes, right there.” Tony cried out. “And now the other one.” She waited patiently through Tony's wordless screaming, her shoe an immoveable threat against the pleads on the tip of his tongue. “Now toss away that ridiculous nail – it's too long – and press his feet to either side of the beam and nail them through the side. ...Why? So his legs take most of the weight, you imbecile. I can't believe none of you are able to do something this simple.”_

_Tony shrieked._

\-----

Natasha watched Clint from the doorway, her arms crossed and her shoulder leaning against the jamb. Within the room, a Stark Tower computer lab, the only light came from the monitor. It washed his face with blue and lit up the wall behind him, the amount of light shifting as the video images changed. Clint's razor-focused expression was pinched and unforgiving.

She knew he'd seen her over the top of the monitor when she appeared two minutes ago, even though neither of them had spoken. “Any progress?” she asked at last, her quiet voice dropping into the silence like a pebble into a pond.

Clint glanced at her without moving anything more than his eyes, then returned his attention to the video. “Not yet.”

Her mouth pressed into a slightly thinner line. The room was silent for a moment before she pointed out, “You might miss something without the audio.”

His eyes, already flat stone, hardened further. “I asked Bruce to analyze it.”

She hummed in acknowledgement. Of course, the audio would be just as, if not more, useful within the context of the video, but she didn't want to hear it either. She would, though, because it was necessary. “There's 62 hours of footage. You're going to need help.”

Clint yanked out the office chair next to him and slammed the flat of his hand against the seat. “Have at it.”

So Natasha glided over and settled into the chair, every movement predatory as a cat with temporarily sheathed claws. After booting up the computer and slipping on headphones, she clicked over to the hated website and hit play on the first viral video.

\-----

_“Yes, yes, of course. How stupid are you?” the woman demanded. “Focus in on him. Like that. Excellent.”_

_Standing on the filming side of the video camera, she smirked over at Tony hanging naked on the upright cross. His head drooped until his chin nearly touched his chest, and his bloodied arms were spread out in helpless supplication. The despair in every line of his body couldn't have been made clearer by any artist._

_The smile dropped out of her voice. “Anthony Edward Stark, look at me!”_

_He rolled his head up and to the side just far enough to see her. His agonized face was streaked with tears, his eyes bloodshot and a little swollen. It was the first image of his face to be captured on that video._

_“Tell the world your crimes,” she commanded._

_Tony just swallowed and looked frightened._

_“Tell them!”_

_“I... I don't know.”_

_“TELL THEM!”_

_He flinched and then choked as the movement jarred his flesh against the immovable nails. “I... I was once known as the Merchant of Death.” When she lifted an unimpressed eyebrow, he rushed on, guessing, “I designed and built weapons that killed countless people. I... I... I'm an alcoholic. I'm an atheist. I....”_

_“You're what?” she asked too gently._

_“I'm bisexual,” he said then stopped, sure that he must have covered what she was looking for._

_Her expression didn't shift. “Go on.”_

_Tony's face screwed up and his voice threatened tears, but he kept going. “I... was born into unearned wealth. I'm promiscuous. I'm a playboy and a gambler. I waste money. I... I don't know!” His voice cracked. “What more do you want?”_

_A figure clothed entirely in black stepped into the frame, a cat o' nine tails trailing behind in his grip. Tony's eyes flitted down to it, did a double-take, then stared. The sight startled the fear out of him. He let out a disbelieving laugh. “No fucking way. You have to be kidding me with all this medieval shit. You're kidding me, right?” He then stared almost, but not quite, into the camera. “Right?”_

_The tone of the woman behind the camera was smug. “We don't need the cat, no. You're right about that.”_

_A black-clad figure with clearly female curves emerged out of the shadows behind Tony. She reached up and squeezed one of his bandaged hands. Blood trickled out between her fingers._

_Unsuspecting, Tony gasped, shuddered and let out a cry._

_“Now,” the woman behind the camera said, “Where were we?”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief paragraph of ableist nonsense (which is really the least of the warnings for this fic). I just really liked the mental picture of Thor carrying Tony until I realized how impractical it was. Then I had to come up with a plausible reason as to why they’d do it anyway. I don’t think I’m sorry.

Tony woke with a jolt, his skin sweaty and his heart pounding. He swallowed, glancing around his darkened bedroom. Thor slept slumped in a chair at his left side, his snores rhythmic and reassuring. Otherwise, Tony was alone.

He didn't remember the trip from the car to his bedroom. He must have been more exhausted than he'd thought to have slept through being carried here.

Craning his neck, he tried to spot the clock on the nightstand without painfully propping himself up on an elbow, but he couldn't quite manage it. His arms and legs were throbbing too insistently. He dropped his head back to the pillow and shifted uncomfortably, the casts on his lower legs rasping against the sheets. The tension all along his back from struggling to keep his limbs as still as possible had spread up into his neck and given him a headache. He twitched his fingertips against the sheets, wishing desperately he could just give in, grab fistfuls and writhe.

Pain this bad had woken him up before.

“Jarvis,” he tried to say. His voice was little more than a hiss. “Jarvis?” he rasped again, then coughed.

“Sir?” the A.I. answered softly.

“What... what time is it?”

“It is 3:32 a.m., sir.”

Tony nodded. It was no wonder, then, that the pain had come ripping back. Against a sudden gust of hurt, he bit his lower lip and held his breath. When he finally let it go, the air shook out of his lungs. If he expected to get any more sleep tonight, he needed painkillers.

“Thor?” he murmured. The other man’s snores didn't even change rhythm.

“Sir,” Jarvis asked, “would you like me to wake him? He doesn't seem to hear you.”

Tony sighed. “Thunder god has poor hearing? I can't imagine.”

Jarvis took that as the affirmative it was and instantly blinked the lights up to full brightness. When the demi-god didn’t even twitch, he set off the Avengers Assemble ring tone on Thor's cell. Tony rolled his eyes at his A.I.’s melodramatics.

The cell phone rang and rattled on the nightstand, shivering almost off the edge. Thor stirred, blinked a few times, then bolted upright. “Tony!” he cried, on high alert. Mjolnir raised itself up and slammed into his hand from the floor beside his chair, just as he himself leapt onto his feet. When he saw that Tony was still safe on the bed and the room was clear, he relaxed a fraction. Then he snatched up the phone from the nightstand and unlocked the screen.

He frowned at Jarvis's message, then peered over at Tony before setting the phone back on the nightstand with a faint click. He slowly lowered himself into his chair, settling Mjolnir reluctantly back on the floor. “You are awake?” he asked, just to be certain.

“Sure am, Point Break,” Tony muttered, wishing he wasn't.

“And you are all right?”

Tony lifted an eyebrow. “As all right as I was yesterday.”

The other man leaned forward, his expression earnest and his eyes far too blue. “Jarvis seemed to indicate that you required assistance?”

Tony exhaled heavily and swallowed. “Yeah, actually. Could you...,” he paused to clear his throat, “get me some painkillers?”

“But of course!” the demi-god cried, snapping to his feet again. He strode into the en-suite bathroom, where Jarvis oh-so-helpfully hit the lights, and then came back with pills and a cup full of water.

Lying flat on his back, Tony looked up at the Asgardian and forced a smile that was distinctly unhappy. “Thanks.” When Thor tried to help him sit up, he shook his head. “No, no, I can do it myself! Do I need working arms to sit up? Yeah, I didn't think so.”

Once upright, Tony gave the demi-god perched on the edge of his bed a warning glare. “If you so much as crack a smile right now, much less laugh, I will sic Bruce on you.”

“I would not even think of laughing,” Thor stated solemnly.

“Good.” He squirmed uncomfortably, sending sharp flares of pain through his hatefully useless hands, before he fought down his pride enough to open his mouth and tilt his head back. Thor deposited the two pills between his lips and trickled in a little water, his expression utterly impassive.

Tony swallowed, making a face as the pills scraped his raw throat. “Thanks,” he rasped reluctantly.

“Worry not over it, Tony. I am always ready and willing to be of help.” And Thor stood, patting him gently on the shoulder before disappearing back into the bathroom to return the cup.

\----

_After the woman in priestly vestments gave her imperious order, they all left and didn't return no matter how much Tony railed, insulted, or begged. Uncounted hours rolled by, and he must have passed out eventually, because he didn't remember watching the light dim as the sun went down._

_To tell time, he only had the two tiny windows set high in the basement wall, and both were at the wrong angle and far too small for him to see anything other than sky. The unfinished room was almost empty, with just the windows in front, the battered stairs in the corner on his left, and puddles of dank water on the concrete floor as decoration. With no view outside and few hints from the architecture, he had no idea where he was. He’d been unconscious for hours after the initial abduction. They could have taken him anywhere._

_He did find one hint, though, when he woke to the darkness. It was cold there at night. They hadn't given him so much as a loincloth, and he shivered. He couldn't stop it, and each little convulsion jarred him against the nails._

_The pain was different than anything he'd felt before. Any torture he'd gone through at the hands of the Ten Rings and any beating he'd suffered as Iron Man had always been relatively quick. The many individual impacts that bruised and broke bones lasted only a moment and dimmed under the rush of adrenaline. The pain lingered, of course, but it wasn't this. This was an ongoing, passive kind of torture, a agony that grew worse as time passed instead of better._

_He could actually feel the nails embedded in his wrists and ankles. Each heartbeat and each inhalation was a reminder; he never knew until then that the muscles as far as his feet and hands were affected by breathing. He desperately wished someone would just take the nails out. It wasn't enough that they were in him. All his weight hung from those pinprick points. As the hours passed, he could feel his flesh begin to give and tear a little under the pressure. His very bones grated on the metal._

_By the next morning, he gave up on threats and pleading for them to take him down. “Just give me something to drink, please!” he called up the basement steps, his raspy voice cracking. “Please, God, I just need a little water. Please.” No one answered. At this point, he didn’t really expect them to. Most likely, they had simply abandoned him there to die. But he couldn’t stop calling out, just in case — just in case someone, anyone, could hear._

_That was all he was able to do. The great Tony Stark, whose last kidnapping resulted in the Mark I, could do nothing to save himself besides cross his fingers and yell for help. He waited — through pain, through thirst drying out his throat, and through a hunger so strong it made him nauseous — and hoped his team was on their way. He had no tools and no mobility. He didn’t even have clothes. There were zero options._

_But the one thing worse than the despair — the one thing nearly equal to the pain — was the embarrassment when his muscles gave against his will and he soiled himself._

_But through everything, the red recording eye on the tripod camera stared and stared and stared._

\----

Bruce was already at the stove in an apron when Thor edged sideways through the doorway, a groggy Tony held effortlessly in his arms. Bruce gave the two of them a smile over his shoulder before turning back to his cooking. “Breakfast is just about ready,” he said to the bacon he was flipping.

“Finally,” Clint groaned. He hovered about two feet away, his right shoulder propped against the fridge door and his arms crossed. His nose was almost twitching at the aroma wafting from the pan.

Natasha, lounging in one of the kitchen chairs, gave Thor and Tony a nod before turning back to filing her nails.

“I wish all of you a lovely morning!” Thor exclaimed, beaming. “It is always a pleasure to break one’s fast amongst teammates.”

“Ow,” Tony muttered, pulling his head away a little. “Too cheerful.”

Thor blinked down at him uncertainly, like he wanted to apologize but wasn’t sure he’d done anything wrong. Eventually he just frowned and asked, “In which seat would you prefer to sit?”

Tony rolled his head to the right, frowning down at Natasha seated at the long kitchen table. “Don’t care.”

The Asgardian exchanged a concerned look with Clint that Tony didn’t notice. Instead of commenting, Thor strode up to Natasha and waited as she wordlessly reached over to pull out the chair on her right. Then the demi-god carefully bent down and eased Tony into the seat. Tony bit his lip and held his breath, but refused to make a sound. After a full minute, he opened his eyes and inhaled deeply, bringing his hands out of his lap to rest carefully on the table.

After a little while, he perked up at the sight of Bruce and the smell of food. “Bruce,” he croaked with a smile. “You look like a housewife.”

“Do I?” he replied absently.

“Where did you even find that apron?”

“He stole it off a clothesline in Venice,” Clint chipped in. “Bet it was some old woman’s. It’s frilly enough.”

Bruce sighed. His tone of voice made it clear it wasn’t the first time he’d said, “It wasn’t Venice.”

“Does it really matter?” Natasha asked. “You two have been arguing about this for almost five minutes.”

Thor had opened his mouth to speak when Steve finally walked through the kitchen door, his hair wet from a post-run shower. “What smells so good?” he asked, scanning the room to count heads. “Oh, hey, Tony. You’re up early.” He pulled out the chair beside Thor’s and across from Natasha’s, then plopped down in it.

Tony glared at him from beneath his eyebrows. “Too cheerful,” he muttered. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re just grumpy because the doc said you shouldn’t have coffee,” Clint said. “Or alcohol.”

Tony then glared at Clint, too, but didn’t deny it. The archer smirked. Then he turned to Bruce, whining, “Come on, everyone’s here now. Aren’t you done yet? Can we eat?”

Bruce looked up with a smile. “Actually, yes. And since you’re so eager, here.” He handed over a plate that teetered with blueberry pancakes, then a second with bacon. “Please put these on the table.”

The archer grumbled and muttered to himself, but trotted over to the table with his treasure anyway. Plunking down in the seat to Steve’s right, he served himself with four pancakes before he passed the plate across to Natasha, who tucked away her nail file before taking it. She put three on her plate, then turned to Tony. “How many do you want?”

Tony eyed the plate warily. He was less hungry and more nauseous from his various prescriptions, but he knew he’d feel better after he ate anyway. Finally, he grunted, “Two.” They weren’t really very big pancakes. And anyway, there was no such thing as leftovers among this crew.

So Natasha put two pancakes on Tony's plate and reached past him to hand it on to Bruce, who was just settling into the chair on Tony’s right. Bruce finished setting down a bowl full of scrambled eggs before taking it from her.

By the time everyone had served themselves from all of the dishes, Tony's plate was looking woefully empty compared to everyone else's. He stared at it. His fingers twitched on the table and curled inward. He wasn’t exactly high on painkillers — they wouldn't let him have that many anymore — but he was nonetheless in relatively little pain.

So this morning, unlike any earlier ones, Tony reached out and curled his claw-like fingers around his fork. He managed to wrap his fist around it, gritting his teeth against the pain in his palm and wrist as his forearm muscles clenched and spasmed.

The room fell quiet, and he felt eyes on him, but he refused to meet their gazes. This morning, he would not be fed by someone else. He was a grown adult, and he could do that much himself. The humiliation of needing help to get dressed was enough — more than enough. So what if it hurt? Everything hurt, and it felt like it always had and always would.

And so Tony scooped up a forkful of eggs, then brought it to his mouth, keeping his wrist as still as possible. It was awkward and forced him to hike up his elbow and shoulder, but it worked. He had to remind himself to chew the rubbery mass despite his lack of appetite. Eventually, he managed to eat most of the eggs on his plate. He wasn't about to chase the remainder around. He didn't really know what to do with the bacon or the pancakes, since eating those would force him to change his grip on the fork.

In the end, he simply sat back and dropped the fork on the table with a dull clink. Finally, he looked up. No one was staring obviously at him, but he saw several pairs of eyes flick away. They were all watching him from the corners of their eyes now.

"I'm done," he murmured, settling his cold hands back in his lap.

Bruce, on his right, couldn't seem to decide whether to frown at how little Tony had eaten, or smile at his accomplishment of eating by himself. In the end, he met Clint's eye and let it go.

Thor, who had been shoveling food in, paused at Tony's announcement. He looked a little sadly at his fresh-filled plate, but put down his silverware anyway in preparation to stand up.

"Tony," Steve interjected, with a glance at Thor, "you really should use the wheelchair."

It was an old argument, one that Tony was in no mood to rehash. "No," he said flatly.

He'd rather be carried than be forced to admit that he needed a wheelchair. Pepper had bought an electric one with his money, but that didn't matter. It could just mildew in a forgotten closet, because Tony Stark refused to be pitied; he wasn’t soon about to forget the curious, sympathetic stares he got while being wheeled out of the hospital. He never wanted to see photos from that debacle ever again. Being carried in a Norse god’s arms was much less humiliating. After all, it was kings who were carried, as in litters on the shoulders of men.

"It is fine, Captain," stated Thor as he rose to his feet. "Worry not, for I do not mind."

Steve sighed wearily. "You shouldn't have to do it, though." He turned back to Tony. "It would be easier on you if you just used the chair. I know it hurts you every time Thor picks you up. I can see it on your face. So why won't you use it?"

Tony glared at him then jerked his head at Thor. The demi-god hesitated but came around the table and pulled out Tony's chair, crouching at his right side. He slid an arm under his knees and another behind his back. Then he paused, asking, "Ready?" Tony took a deep breath and gave a nod. Thor lifted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Four years. I AM still alive, yes! I'm actually struggling with my master's in creative writing, and so, inspired by all you lovelies who have commented over the years, I have come back to the start of what made me fall in love with writing: fanfiction. If anyone is hoping for an update to Positive Attention, I will be finishing both of these fics soon. I need something light and pressure-free, so let's have some (angsty) fun. On that note, probably none of the writing from here to the ending will be beta-ed.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Eileen_Sparrow and all you other readers who encouraged me to continue. I love you all.

Thor set Tony down in his favorite corner of the couch, where the cushions sucked him in like marshmallows. “And the footstool,” Tony said, “Don’t forget—”

“I know,” Thor sighed, tired and annoyed. He snatched the ottoman up and gestured lightly with it, even though the thing was heavy and had wheels. “Lift your feet.”

Thor sounded tired from helping him constantly. Tony shrank a little and tried not to chew on his lower lip. He knew he was being annoying with the royal commands, but that knowledge only made him feel more uncomfortable and more likely to hide behind a regal air—to pretend as though he deserved to be served hand-and-foot instead of needing it. He fought the urge to bury his face in his hands or a cushion.

Instead, he scowled and lifted his feet. Thor wedged the stool underneath, thumped his shoulder, and walked off into the kitchen without another word. The back of his shoulders were tense with frustration. The words “don’t go” lodged in Tony’s throat.

He dropped his gaze to his lap. The casts covered his legs from the knee down; they left his toes bare and always cold. His shorts didn’t cover much, either, and he was wearing one of his ratty, thin T-shirts. A blanket lay nearby across the back of the sofa. No one else was in the room. If he wanted it, he’d have to get it himself.

Between his forefinger and thumb, he gripped a corner of the blanket and tugged. It didn’t move much. His shoulders were only a little sore now, but the puncture wounds in his wrist and hand ached whenever he moved his fingers. It was just a stupid blanket. No one was here to see him grimace.

He held his breath and pulled harder. The heavy crocheted thing dropped down and across his shoulder. Another pull, and it fell across his lap. He broke out in a sweat from the pain. Eh, good enough. That just left the remote control. He fumbled it off the end table, but it fell out of his hand onto the floor.

It didn’t twitch under his glare. Normally, Jarvis could help, but this TV was a relic, dredged up after the Hulk’s appearance last week.

One hip at a time, he inched forward to the edge of the couch. With his weight propped on his right elbow, he reached across with his other hand, but the remote was too far.

From the kitchen behind him, he could hear Thor and Steve talking, Natasha interjecting occasionally. Tony dropped his face into his elbow. He didn’t want to ask for help. Not again. He was a grown-ass adult and he should be able to reach a remote and turn on his own damn TV.

When he strained for it again, his middle finger brushed it and made it jump. He scooted forward until his tailbone was the only thing supporting him. Then the stool rolled away and he fell off the sofa, his legs in the air like an idiot. The impact forced a grunt from his lungs as the vibration traveled all the way up his spine.

The voices in the kitchen fell silent. “Tony?” Steve called. Footsteps came around the far end of the sectional. “Tony!” He rushed forward, reaching.

Tony held up his hands. “No! Don’t. I’m fine.”

Steve stopped and stepped back, his face falling. He seemed uncertain what to do with his hands. Thor and Nat peered over his shoulder. “Man of Iron! What has happened?”

He sneered. “What does it look like?” He was already on the floor, so he leaned sideways and snatched up the remote, waving it at them before tossing it on the couch.

“You should have asked me,” Thor said. “I would have gotten it for you.”

Tony twitched at that. So Thor felt guilty now? What had happened to all that annoyance—just gone now that Tony was pathetic and pitiable again? “You’ve done enough.” His fingers jerked, but it would have hurt too much to curl them into a fist. “I know you’re tired of helping me, so go on. Go! I can do it myself.”

Thor stepped forward, but Natasha stopped him with a hand to his chest. She studied Tony, then met Thor’s gaze and shook her head. “He said he can do it,” she murmured. “So let him try.” Thor looked bewildered and turned to Steve. Natasha leveled a look at the pair and drew them with her into the kitchen.

Tony’s teeth clenched. He dragged his legs off the stool, twisted sideways onto a hip, and propped his arm on the seat. His muscles strained and his wounds screamed when he dug his fingers in to the cushion, but he only rose a few inches before he thumped back down. A second try yielded the same result.

The kitchen was silent. He swore under his breath. Maybe he’d just watch TV from the floor.

“Want some help?” Clint said from behind him.

Tony gasped and whirled. Clint lifted his hands. “Whoa, sorry. Just looked like you were having some trouble.”

He turned back and dropped his forehead onto the cushion. He was being double-teamed, and he wouldn’t put it past Nat to have known about Clint’s coming. Silence drifted while he ground his teeth.

“Yes,” he muttered.

“What?”

He sat up. “Yes. Yes, okay? I need help.” It almost physically hurt to admit, and he couldn’t bring himself to phrase it as a request.

“Sure. I’ll lift you under the shoulders, okay?” Clint stepped up behind him and took hold. Tony felt like a child, but he nodded.

“On three. One, two, three!” Clint heaved him onto the sofa, and Tony’s legs trailed along like a paralyzed side-saddle. He turned, twisted and shuffled himself back into the cushions, while Clint wheeled the ottoman into place.

After he was tucked in with the blanket and the remote in easy reach, Clint plopped onto the seat beside him. “Whew!” He laced his fingers behind his head. “So. Movie?”

* * *

_The second morning, someone walked down the wooden basement stairs. Tony lifted his head at the sound of the door and watched as their legs appeared step by step. Finally, the person paused near the bottom and rested a hand on the wall, ducking underneath to see him. All of these crazies wore tight, cloth masks when they knew the camera was rolling, but Tony recognized this one by the crooked teeth in his grin. It was the man who had nailed him to the cross._

_“The great Tony Stark,” he drawled as he strolled over. “Iron Man.” He stood staring up at Tony, just grinning and seeming to bask in the sight._

_Tony stared back, exhausted._

_The man pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and brandished it. “Do you know what this is? It’s a printout of some of the comments on our video.” He paused. “Well. It’s your video, really.” He gestured up and down at Tony’s naked body. “You’re the showpiece, after all.” He unfolded the paper and angled his body out so he faced the camera more._

_“Here’s the first one: ‘What a fucking joke! I can’t believe Stark would pull a publicity stunt like this. Where does he get off? Nailing himself to a fucking cross, really? He’s no martyr, no saint, no fucking messiah—just a goddamn psycho who’s going to hell forever and ever.’” The man laughed. “Can you imagine? They think you did it to yourself!_

_“But here’s another: ‘I just threw up in my mouth. This is the most disgusting video I have ever seen. Stark, you should be ashamed of yourself!’_

_“And maybe my favorite: ‘Good! He deserves it after all the destruction he’s caused. My cousin died in the New York battle under the rubble. The Avengers destroy all they touch! Burn in hell!’”_

_He paused to look into Tony’s eyes. Tony refused to meet his gaze. The man slapped him across the cheek._

_“You hear that, Stark? Everyone hates you. Everyone. Even the people you tried so hard to save.” He gestured with the paper. “You see this? These are just a few out of thousands of comments, and more are pouring in all the time.” He squatted to arrange the paper on the floor so Tony could see. The font was huge. The man pulled out two more pages and set them out as well._

_Then he stood. “I’d leave a computer here so you can watch them pour in, but it’s been forbidden. Too high risk, unfortunately. But these? These are just the start, now that I’ve gained permission. I’ll bring more of my favorites soon. After all,” and he leaned in, his lip lifting with contempt, “humiliation is what the crucified deserve.”_

_Then he left. The stairs creaked, the door shut, and the lock clicked into place. Tony just kept staring down at the pages. The words screamed up at him, and he closed his eyes against them. He could no longer hold his head up, but he didn’t have to see._

_The red eye of the camera stared.  Tony thought it a silver lining he was too dehydrated for tears._


End file.
